


Light as Iron, Singed as Pearl

by Snegurochka



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-08
Updated: 2009-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-05 23:49:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snegurochka/pseuds/Snegurochka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The owner of the elite BDSM club <i>M.</i> had not gained his reputation as the most coveted Dominant on the scene by taking on just any riff-raff submissive who asked. It would take an unexpected letter to convince him to accept a new client, but it might turn out to be the biggest mistake he ever made.</p><p>~13,800 words. NC-17. Dom/sub. Bondage. EWE. Written for hd_career_fair. Many thanks to marguerite_26 for the beta work. October 2009.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light as Iron, Singed as Pearl

The boy was blond, which was the first problem. Sinewy, erect, and with a pleasing bit of kohl across his lowered lids, but still _blond_. Draco slid the tip of the riding crop over the boy's clenched stomach, letting the tendril curl over the bulge in his pants. He leaned down.

"You are not pleasing me."

The boy began to tremble. "I– sorry, sir. What can I–"

His voice soft, Draco cut him off. "Did I ask you to speak?"

The boy pressed his lips together, the bulge in his pants expanding.

Sighing, Draco tried to concentrate, but after this many years in the business, he could already size this boy up and know the encounter would be unfulfilling. Not for the boy, of course; Draco was very good at what he did. But he himself could hardly be expected to enjoy coming down the throat of a simpering little thing who would fall over in a stiff wind.

Clearly, Carlos would have to be fired for vouching for this untrained club boy in the first place. "He's very interested in what we do, sir," the thug had assured Draco, showing him the magical photos in the boy's application and tracing one thick index finger over the tiny expanse of throat as the boy tilted his head back, eyes averted. "Nineteen, plenty of experience with the Muggles, and just look at the way those pretty eyes of his can pin you down, eh? Nng."

Draco should never have let Carlos stand so close to him when reviewing the applications; that was the fucking problem. The low moan punctuating his words about this boy in particular didn't help. Draco had never been able to resist dark hair and a strong, shadowed jaw. The deep voice moaning in his ear was just icing on the cake. The bastard.

"Fine," Draco had agreed, the word clipped as he stepped away, picking an invisible piece of lint from his robes. "Bring him to me tomorrow night. I'll decide."

Carlos had withdrawn as usual, with a shallow bow and his customary wink.

But now – yes. Fired. Tomorrow. Possibly sooner, if Draco could manage it.

"Be still." Honestly, the boy was like a restless puppy, squirming on his knees, moving his head from side to side as he followed Draco's movements with his lowered eyes, making irritating little noises as he tried to clear his throat in preparation to speak when requested. Draco ceased his pacing and came to rest in front of the boy. "I am going to come on your face," he said quietly, "and you are not going to come at all. Does that bother you? You may answer."

The pale throat expanded over a surprised gulp. "No, sir," he replied in a trembling voice.

"Are you sure?" Draco smirked. This one didn't even know how far out of his league he was.

"Y–yes, sir. Very sure. Please, sir." He paused. "Use me."

The boy was still entirely too passive for Draco's liking, but that last phrase always did get his blood up just a little bit. The thin bit of silver around his left wrist jangled as he slowly opened his robes and trousers, lifting his cock out and beginning to stroke it. The problem was that dominance for its own sake didn't hold the same appeal it had ten, or even five, years ago. He was thirty years old now, and intimidating these trembling little wisps of candyfloss had lost its amusement.

_Use me_.

He closed his eyes as the words floated through his mind again, letting them drift over his body and spark his arousal. It was the thought of using someone who didn't _need_ to be used that really appealed, someone who gave him their submission as a gift rather than falling to his feet out of some misguided, childish role-play. Armed with that thought, he conjured nameless, faceless men in his head as he stroked himself, men with powerful frames and dark hair and knowing eyes that would pierce through him in understanding before their lids lowered to the floor, their submission laid out just for him...

His release nearly caught him off guard; only a startled gasp from the boy made Draco open his eyes. A small smile caught his lips at the sight of his come dripping down the boy's cheek and smearing over his lips. He slid his fist down his cock one final time before letting it go, his fingers continuing down to brush over the boy's pink mouth. "Lick," he whispered, watching the boy's tongue slip out to move slowly over his lips, sucking at Draco's fingers.

Two minutes later, he exited the room with impeccable clothing and headed downstairs to his office. He checked the schedule, his eyes flickering up occasionally to compare it to the keypads still glowing blue on the wall chart. Colette was still in the Ivy room with that hirsute boar of hers, it seemed, and Philip had taken his twins to the steam room – with the new flagellation set, if that pinging bubble of a message from the equipment chamber was working as it damn well should be.

That left... Carlos. He tapped his fingers against the desk, narrowing his eyes at the chart. After another minute, the Ruby room slot began to glow blue, and Draco sighed. Of course. He'd slipped into the chamber Draco had just exited, and was probably at this moment fucking Draco's come off that little plaything he'd brought in.

Right, then. Fired. Tomorrow.

For now, Draco poured himself a drink, sat back in his desk chair, and waited for the rest of his employees' lights to go out.

***

On the other side of town, the head of the Ministry's postwar Reconciliation and Reconstruction Commission sat in his office long past midnight, a charmed window letting in the depressing facsimile of moonlight under a kilometre of London dirt.

He tapped his quill against his chin, deep in thought. Finally, he swivelled his chair back around and faced the clean sheet of parchment laid out over his desk. It was risky, possibly more so than he even realised; after frequenting Muggle establishments for years, it could be disastrous to try a Wizarding club at last. Too many questions, and far too many witnesses, for a start. But he had also been assured that the ultra secretive _M_., the only moniker by which the place was known, was as discreet as it was pricey.

And if the Commissioner's contacts were right, it was worth every Knut.

The problem, they said, was that the owner was rather fussy about the applicants he accepted. One had to craft a letter just _so_, or risk gaining nothing but the nipple clamps of his lowest minion. A challenge, then. He dipped his quill in the ink and bent his head to the parchment.

The Commissioner had a thing for challenges.

***

The letter arrived the next day. Everyone in the main offices blinked as the owl soared in. The establishment was not exactly easy to find, and most applications were delivered by the regular clients who had recommended the place, not by post.

Philip set his tea down and grabbed the envelope from the owl's beak, petting the bird awkwardly. "To the Proprietor of _M_.," he read, passing it over to Draco with a knowing look. "How exciting for you, sir."

Draco smacked him lightly on the shoulder before taking the letter and turning it over in his hands. It had been stripped of all identifying markers, as far as he could tell. Interesting. He understood the impulse for discretion, of course, but by the time they got to him, his clients generally knew better than to worry about that. It must be some inexperienced young thing who was taking a friend up on a dare. Honestly. He'd have to speak to Phoebe about security, if just _anyone_ could get to them by owl post.

But as he unfolded the crisp parchment and began to read, he found himself unconcerned with all matters of the day that had previously weighed on his mind. This did not sound like someone either inexperienced or young.

This sounded like someone who knew exactly what he wanted.

Draco beckoned to Phoebe and retreated into his office. She followed, notebook in hand and a look of placid amusement on her face. He handed her the letter and gestured at the owl still perched on the windowsill of the outer office. "Tell him I shall grant his request," he said. "Once."

She pretended to scribble in her notebook. "Very good, sir." She tilted her head. "I thought you were swearing off new ones since that twink Carlos brought."

"I don't know anyone named Carlos," he replied smoothly. "And I don't remember granting you permission to speak." He glanced up from his paperwork in time to see her wink, give him a small bow and leave.

She was worth her weight in gold, that one, and considering what she charged him for the privilege of opening his mail, making his appointments and fending off any untoward inquiries from the Gainful Employment Bureau of that pestilence of a Renovation Commission (or whatever it was called) – that was saying something.

***

The Commissioner spotted the dark envelope immediately and snatched it from his owl's beak, horrified. "What are you doing delivering this _here_?" he whispered to it, his eyes darting around the floor taken up by his offices. This was a mistake. He should have given this life up years ago, especially with such a prestigious and public position on the line should word ever get out about his nocturnal activities.

He sighed, opening the letter amidst a pile of others and cursing the dark parchment that stood out like a sore fucking thumb. But as he scanned the page, he couldn't quite keep his stomach from clenching in quiet anticipation as the words rolled down his body. He was in.

If the Dominant who ran the mysterious club _M_. was half as good as his reputation, it would be all the Commissioner could do to get through the workday in one piece.

***

"Your nine o'clock is here, sir."

Draco glanced up from his papers. "Prompt, is he?"

Phoebe gave him a tiny smile. "Seems that way, sir." She paused. "A good sign, if I may say."

"You may not." Draco rose with a smirk and gave her a peck on the cheek, keeping his mouth close to her ear. "Have him remove his shirt and kneel beside the green chair in the Ebony room. I'll be along shortly."

"Would that be closer to thirty minutes this time, sir, or sixty?"

"It's closer to none of your damn business," he shot back as he moved away, but he returned her mischievous smile. "Nor his," he added, glancing back over his shoulder as he picked up the wine decanter. "I don't suppose you got a good look at him?"

He should have known to press her further when he caught sight of the look that passed over her face before she composed herself again. She gave him a dramatic bow. "I think he'll please you very much, sir," she said as she withdrew, pulling his office door closed behind her.

When he entered the room thirty-four minutes later, he didn't know whether to kill her or simply fire her.

The man sat kneeling where Draco had instructed, his hands clasped comfortably behind his back and his eyes on the floor. Before he could even process the situation, Draco pulled a piece of cloth from his pocket and crossed the room swiftly, tying it around the man's head to blindfold him. Fucking hell. Until he figured out what he was going to do, the last thing Draco needed was for the bastard to cheat and raise his eyes.

The fabric tightened across the telltale lightning bolt scar on the man's forehead, and Draco stepped back, his mind racing.

He was a professional. After this many years in the business, there were more than a few instances stacked up in which Draco had been unable to take on a client for one reason or another. This would simply be added to the pile. He should instruct this man to leave, insist he had no interest in his application after all, and they could both be on their way. He didn't have to make it personal.

But this was Harry bleeding _Potter_, kneeling before him on the floor of his most expensive suite, barging in on Draco's careful life and scattering it every which way. How could he _not_ make it personal?

"I was intrigued by your letter," Draco began, pitching his voice a shade lower than was natural.

Potter remained still, not daring to speak. Well, that was a sign of some sort of training, at least.

"It's not a terribly submissive thing to do, you know – writing to me to ask for your needs to be met."

A flush crept across Potter's cheeks under the lower edge of the blindfold, but he remained still.

"Or is it?" Draco moved across to the opposite chair and relaxed into it, tapping his fingers on the edge and considering the matter. "Tell me, what do you believe the role of the submissive is, in this sort of situation?" When Potter made no move, he added, "You may answer me."

"My role is to allow you a space in which you can safely take your pleasure," said Potter, his voice quiet but firm, "while you allow me a space in which I can safely take mine."

Draco stared at him.

"Oh, sorry," Potter added, sarcasm lacing his words. "Am I supposed to say, _'My role is to let you do anything you want to me, sir_'?" He coloured the mock answer with the higher voice of exactly the kind of passive submissive Draco loathed. "From what I hear, that's not really what you do here."

"And what, precisely, do you think we do here?"

"For the right price, you'll give me what I want."

Draco could hardly believe his ears. "Are you certain you're a submissive?" he asked calmly, trying to keep his voice even.

Potter's face broke form for a moment as his mouth curled into a small smile. "Maybe not the kind you're used to, but yeah." He wet his lips. "I am."

Oh, the unbelievable _nerve_. A hot surge of anger flared in Draco, and he clenched his fingers in the arms of his chair. Was Potter actually this dim? Did he _actually_ not have any idea whose fucking club this was? "You will call me _sir_ when you speak to me," said Draco, his voice low. "You will not smile unless I instruct you that something we are doing is tremendously funny."

Potter's face fell immediately, and he schooled it back to his initial neutrality.

"You will not give me cheeky answers like a pimply adolescent, and finally–" he leaned forward in his chair – "you will not presume to know _anything_ about what does or does not give me pleasure." He paused. "Do we understand each other? You may answer."

"Yes, sir," said Potter, his voice less confident than before but still even.

"I am going to ask you a question now, and you may answer me." Draco paused, considering how to word it. Finally, he leaned forward. "Are you perhaps accustomed to asking for what you want, and receiving it?"

Potter's brows drew together. "I– no, sir."

"In your life, I mean," snapped Draco. "Not here." He gestured at the room, even though Potter couldn't see him do it.

Potter hesitated, his mouth turning down. "Yes," he said quietly. "I am." He tilted his head upwards just a bit, even though Draco had full confidence in the blindfold. "You know who I am, so you should know that."

"I believe I told you to cut out the cheeky answers."

Potter pressed his lips together.

"Does it bother you that I know who you are, but you do not know me? You may answer."

Potter hesitated. "Instinctively, yes. I can't lie about that. But I've also been told I can trust this place with my life." He paused. "Is that true?"

"Your reputation, perhaps," said Draco. "Not your life."

Potter gave him a small smile.

"So, Commissioner." Draco drawled out the name, rising from his chair and walking slowly over to Potter. He stopped directly in front of him, still trying to decide what on earth to do with him.

"Don't call me that," said Potter, his voice dark. "Not here."

Draco let the toes of his boots nudge Potter's knees. They must ache quite a bit by now. "What should I call you, then?"

"Nothing." Potter swallowed. "Sir. When I'm here, I'm nameless." Draco could see his brow furrow under the blindfold. "Is that going to be a problem?"

Draco leaned down close to Potter's ear. "That's for me to decide, isn't it?" he whispered. His eyes drifted down Potter's bare torso to find his trousers shifting. He blinked. So. The famous Harry Potter really did get off on being ordered around in the bedroom. Then before he sent him on his way, it wouldn't hurt to perform a little test. He let the silence swell between them before unfastening his trousers in front of Potter's face. His dick was hardening – not, Draco assured himself, from _Potter_, but rather from the situation as a whole. Dominance got him off. Simple as that.

Potter's chest expanded with a deep breath as he listened to Draco's trousers open.

Draco paused, one hand around his dick. "Do you like not knowing what's coming?"

Potter paused, his breath catching. "Yes," he murmured at last.

"Do you like not having to make the decision about what happens next?" At this, Draco leaned down and brushed his thumb across Potter's lips.

"God," Potter breathed, his lips parting. "_Yes_."

Draco's cock swelled at the demonstration of submission, that precious, perfect beginning of any encounter that had aroused him since he was old enough to know what it was. He stared down at Potter's parted lips and flushed cheeks, the contrast of the dark blindfold against his face both arousing and infuriating. _Potter_, of all the fucking people to show up here. Without any more preamble, Draco pressed forward, guiding his cock into Potter's mouth more aggressively than he probably should have, were this a regular encounter with a regular client.

But it wasn't any such thing.

Potter choked only briefly, his nostrils flaring as he struggled to breathe. He quickly adapted, however, and Draco found himself curling his fingers into the back of Potter's hair as he thrust deep, the slide of Potter's tongue against the underside of his cock sending sparks up his spine. He watched from under hooded eyes as his dick disappeared into Potter's wet mouth and slid back out, over and over again, every stupid fucking thing Potter had ever done to him alive in his mind. Oh, but revenge was sweet.

"Suck it," he hissed, forcing Potter's head forward to take him deeper. "This'll shut you up for two bloody seconds, you disobedient little cockslut." The words weren't necessarily different from what he'd say in any other situation with a client, but with _Potter's_ red lips stretched around him, they took on entirely new meaning. "I'm going to come down your throat and then leave you here on your knees all fucking night," he murmured, his voice taking on a harder edge. "And when I come back, I'm going to push you down and fuck you till you beg me to stop."

The role-play of it seeped into Draco's blood as anger flashed through him. He saw Potter's trousers twitch again and grew even more livid.

"Don't you dare fucking come until I say you can," he barked. In response, Potter increased the pressure of his mouth around Draco's cock. It was too much. Tightening his fist in Potter's hair, Draco pushed forward again and began to pulse in hot waves into Potter's mouth. He pulled himself free with great effort and slid his palm down his cock, spurting once more over Potter's lips. As his release slowed, Draco nudged the tip of his cock against Potter's lips and smeared the come over them, letting it drip down his chin.

His heart thudding, Draco finally stepped back and admired his work. Well, well, well. Look at the great Harry Potter now.

He knew he should leave. He should turn and walk out the door right this second and send Phoebe in to direct their client to the baths and the exit, pouring vague promises in his ear to let him know just as soon as a decision had been made about his application. He should go back to his office, open a bottle of wine, and savour the memory of Harry bleeding Potter with come dripping from his lips, unable even to wipe it away until instructed. But before he did any of that, he could, just for a moment, see to his final revenge.

"Did you enjoy that?" asked Draco softly, tucking himself back in his trousers. "You may answer."

"Yes," murmured Potter, his mouth glistening.

"Would you like to see me now?"

Potter seemed to debate this. "If it would please you," he said at last. Draco smiled, moving back to relax once more in the armchair.

"Very well. You may wipe your mouth and remove the blindfold."

Potter unclasped his hands behind his back and brought one up to his lips, catching the remains of Draco's come in his open palm and then wiping it on his trousers. Then he reached behind his head, the move pulling his torso taut and showing off the surprising amount of muscle to his arms and chest. Draco was just about to sneer at him for untying the thing with his hands, when Potter's low voice echoed around the room. "_Libero_." With one wandless touch, the fabric fell into his hands, and Potter blinked up at Draco.

Oh, but _this_ would be a moment to replay in the Pensieve for years to come. The way Potter's face shifted from calm, attentive arousal to blind, burning hatred was truly a thing to behold.

"_You_," he breathed, the syllable igniting on his tongue as he rose to his feet as quickly as his battered knees would let him. He shook his head back and forth even as he pinned his gaze on Draco. "What the fuck is this?"

For a brief moment, Draco had the presence of mind to feel a touch of fear. They said Potter had remained a ridiculously powerful wizard after the war, even with his wand locked up tightly in Phoebe's office. Well, there were more than a few charms in place if Draco, or any of the employees, were attacked by clients; he trusted they would work sufficiently. If they didn't, well. Phoebe was a clever girl; she'd know how to ruin Potter completely with the information that he'd killed the proprietor of a sex club during a kinky disagreement. "Welcome to my club, Commissioner," drawled Draco, crossing one leg over the other and settling back in the chair. "How nice of you to drop by."

Draco watched the wheels turn in Potter's head as his gaze flew around the room. "Your club," he bit out. "You. Jesus." He scrubbed at his face, then stormed off to the alcove in one corner of the room. He grabbed his shirt and threw it over his shoulders, hastily fastening the buttons. The tail still trailing behind him, he stalked to the door. "Fuck you," he spat over his shoulder as he flung it open.

"Likewise, Potter," called Draco, amused. "Phoebe will have your wand on the way out," he added as he heard Potter's footsteps slow. They increased again, and Draco grinned at the sound of several more doors opening and slamming shut as Potter made his way out to the main chamber.

***

Back at his flat, Harry leaned over the sink, his arms locked and palms cool over the white porcelain. Water dripped down his face as he regarded himself in the mirror, trying to picture himself as Malfoy would have seen him.

On his knees with a cock in his mouth, begging to be dominated.

_Fuck_.

Six years of being so careful, of wearing glamours and frequenting Muggle clubs on the Continent where it was guaranteed he'd never see anyone he knew, and now it was all for naught. Malfoy would be at the Floo with every seedy journalist in Britain by now, probably armed with secret pictures or hell, even Pensieve visions. He'd finally got an appointment at the elusive _M_., finally thought all his fantasies would be brought to life. Finally thought he could let go of the bureaucratic nightmare he lived every day and, even if only once a week, let someone else take charge of him, play the hero, and now…

He closed his eyes, dipping his head to splash more water over his face.

Now he was left with only the stain of Draco Malfoy's come on his lips and the sound of the voice that would ruin his life burned into his mind. Even crueler was the residue of his sudden, stinging arousal, and the knowledge that one command from a dominant partner as powerful as Malfoy could leave him helpless in the face of his desire.

***

"You're fired."

Phoebe simply turned the page of her magazine, not looking up. "I am not."

Draco closed the office door behind him. "You most certainly are. Harry bleeding Potter – are you mad?"

"I notice you didn't come running out after thirty seconds." She flipped another page.

He opened his mouth to respond to that but then closed it again.

She glanced up at last. "Good, was he?" Her over-rubied lips curled into a smile. "I knew it."

Draco folded his arms over his chest. "What are the three holy rules of this establishment, Ms Cooke?" He didn't like the way her smile only deepened. She sat back in her chair.

"Let's see. One: if you reveal the identity of a client, either inadvertently or maliciously, you'll never have an orgasm again for the rest of your life."

Draco inclined his head. That was a particular prideful bit of charm work.

"Two: subs are people too. Sometimes." At his narrowed eyes, she let out a tinkly laugh. "Oh, _relax_. A girl would never know you'd just had the shag of your life."

"You are absolutely _fir_–"

"I am _not_. All right. Two: anyone putting unclean toys away in the cupboard will have their bits break out in pustules for the rest of their life."

Draco nodded for her to continue.

"And three–" she crossed her legs and began to swing her free foot as she regarded him – "anyone caught engaging in business, or pleasure, with Harry Potter will be fired." She paused. "I admit, I always thought that one was a bit odd. Really, what were the odds that someone like him would ever show up here?"

"You don't know Potter," Draco grumbled. "He's got an unfortunate tendency to show up where he's least welcome."

"Sir?" She blinked at him, the paragon of innocence. The little vamp.

He raised a brow. "Yes?"

She wet her lips, her chest beginning to rise and fall a bit faster. "Is Harry Potter _really_ a submissive?"

Draco considered that. The possibility remained that it had all been a ruse of some kind, although Draco couldn't yet figure out what sort of trap would have led Potter to have such a vicious reaction upon learning Draco's identity. Over his years in this business, Draco had seen a few masquerades, men conducting tests of some sort on themselves, even the odd journalist who didn't properly fear for his genitals should he write an exposé, but Potter met none of those profiles. "Yes," he said at last, the vision swimming before him of Potter expertly squaring his shoulders to balance himself while his arms were immobilised behind his back. "He is."

She exhaled a long, slow breath, and Draco knew exactly what images her mind was conjuring. "Wow," she breathed. "Never would have thought it."

Draco propped himself up against the door, arms folded over his chest. "Why not?"

"No, I know what you taught me: they come in all shapes and sizes. But still. It's just – _Harry Potter_?"

"You didn't know me back at school," he said quietly. "When I wasn't being a sycophant, I was..." He bit down over the word _coward_. Some traumas of the past weren't worth revisiting. "Well. I was not what you might expect. Yet here I am." He spread his hands.

Her mouth fell open. "Oh. No, sir, I didn't mean–"

"All shapes and sizes, Ms Cooke." He turned back to the door and wrenched it open. "Forget he was ever here," he called over his shoulder. "He's certainly not coming back."

***

Harry woke with a start ten minutes shy of five a.m., when his alarm would have rung. He rolled over and clutched at his pillow with an anguished moan, trying to flatten it over his head and smother the remnants of the dream from his mind.

It didn't work.

He finally rose, showered, dressed and set off for work all with the crystal clear image seared behind his eyes, a variation on the same dream he'd been having since he'd first figured out he enjoyed submission: himself, naked and bound to the floor of a train compartment, while a man concealed in shadow towered over him – with a boot raised over Harry's face. It wasn't the thought of it striking down on him that did him in, nor the threat of blood or pain; it was that final, dawning moment of complete helplessness, the moment that his deepest fantasies had turned into trust instead of fear. The dream always ended the same way, with a vicious, shuddering orgasm the moment the boot began to fall.

He had long since stopped analysing his desires and dreams, but now he could think of nothing else.

***

It was always risky to be seen in the Ministry, but sometimes Draco simply didn't have a choice. Appearances had to be maintained.

"Always a pleasure, Bernard," he said, shaking the hand of a plump man with a walrus moustache and far too much power in the Wizarding Chamber of Commerce. "Till next quarter, then. We'll have to do lunch in the city."

"Remember what I said about your part-time employees," said Bernard, tapping his nose. "Make sure they're under twenty-four hours a week, and no one needs to know they're even there at all, if you see my meaning."

Draco did indeed. He also hardly needed tax advice from this bureaucratic buffoon, not after this many years running a clandestine business that was officially registered as a printing firm. He knew every trick in the book. But he duly nodded and tried to look humble. "Excellent advice, yes. I shall certainly do that." He turned away and rolled his eyes as Bernard squeezed himself into the lift. Draco sighed and scanned the lobby.

Enough postwar "reconstruction" to render Thestrals the sentient equivalent of a Hogwarts professor, and the Ministry still couldn't put a bloody espresso booth in the foyer. He might have to speak to the Commissioner about that.

Dammit. No. That train of thought was not even worth entertaining.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

The low voice growled close to his ear, and Draco turned; years of practice had taught him to be prepared for battle after hearing words like that. He paused when he saw who it was. Well. Speak of the devil. He inclined his head. "Commissioner."

"What do you want?"

Draco bit down on a smile at the panicked note in Potter's voice. "I came to see you, of course," he said, holding Potter's gaze. "Am I not welcome?"

The flash of panic turned into full-blown dread. Potter's brow crumpled and his eyes darted around the lobby. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, grabbing Draco's elbow and steering him into a lift. He stared straight ahead as they travelled to the correct floor, his nostrils flaring. When the door opened, he dropped Draco's arm and emerged with his face schooled into picture-perfect neutrality. Draco couldn't help but stare as the mask he'd seen the night before slid into place.

Potter led Draco past his employees' desks and into his corner office, closing the door behind them before whirling around, eyes blazing. "The papers were surprisingly boring this morning," he began. "I gather you're here to do it in person?"

Draco leaned back against the door, folding his arms across his chest. "Do what?"

Potter let out a strangled little laugh, burying his face in one hand. "Right. Okay. Look, Malfoy, what is it you want – money? Tax breaks? A license to run your fucking brothel? You might as well just come out with it and we'll get this over with."

Draco considered it. Perhaps he should simply ask for something outrageous and see what Potter would do. Having the head of the Reconciliation and Reconstruction Commission at one's beck and call was not a privilege to give up lightly, after all. Potter had more power these days than the Minister himself. There was one's pride to consider, though, as well as the principles on which he'd founded the damn club in the first place. He raised an eyebrow. "Brothel?" he said instead, tilting his head to the side. "Now that's hardly fair. Besides," he added, "if I'm running a brothel, one has to wonder what that makes _you_, Commissioner."

Potter took a step towards him, hands balled into fists at his sides. "Malfoy, I swear to fucking God, I will–"

"I'm not interested in outing you and your perversions," he snapped. This game was getting old. "We all have them, after all. And if I outed every client who pissed me off, I wouldn't have a business to run, now, would I?"

Potter's eyes widened and then briefly closed. He exhaled a steady breath.

Walking towards him with his arms still folded over his chest and his chin lifted, Draco settled well inside the boundaries of Potter's personal space. Potter remained still. "I am a businessman," he murmured, watching Potter's face.

"You're a prostitute," Potter shot back, taking a step backwards at last.

Quick as lightning, Draco's hand shot out and he curled his index finger under Potter's chin, his thumb digging into the side of his face. He squared his shoulders and shifted his voice, making his new persona plain. "What did you say to me?" he said quietly.

He held back a grin of triumph when Potter crumbled. Casting his eyes down, his shoulders curved and his arms fell limp. Draco stared. Remarkable. After a heated pause, Potter took a shuddering breath and murmured, "Not here."

"You don't decide that." Draco shifted his hand so that his thumb slid over Potter's lips. Despite himself, Potter parted them and swiped his tongue up the pad of Draco's thumb, a flash of heat creeping up his face. With his own blood rising, Draco threw caution to the wind and leaned in close to Potter's ear. "I decide what happens here. If I want to bend you over this desk right this second and fuck that grin off your face, that's my decision, not yours."

Potter whimpered.

"If I want to have you on your knees – _again_," he added, drawing out the word, "with my cock in your mouth and my come on your tongue, then I will do so. You decide _nothing_. Is that clear? You may nod or remain still to answer."

Potter's face was a mess of emotion, nowhere near the confident submissive Draco had encountered at the club. He took several shuddering breaths, his lips parted and his brow damp, before finally nodding, his eyes still downcast.

The moment of triumph was bittersweet. That had been entirely too easy. Irritated, Draco turned on his heel and headed for the door.

"What? Wait."

He paused, his fingers curled around the doorknob. He didn't turn around.

"What do you want from me, Malfoy? What are you– _Jesus_. You can't just–"

"It won't work," said Draco. "Your application is rejected."

"Oh, fuck you. What the fuck is your problem, coming down here and–"

"One, because I don't take on regular clients," interrupted Draco, turning at last and glaring at Potter. "I am a businessman and not, as you so generously assumed, a _prostitute_."

Potter ran his hand over his face.

"Two, because you are much more trouble than you're worth."

His hand stopping over his mouth, Potter glared.

"And three," Draco finished, "because I don't respect you."

That left Potter blinking.

"If I wanted an obedient little doll to bend over a Ministry desk, I'd get one from a joke shop and bin it afterward," he bit out.

Potter gave him an incredulous look. "That's what submission _is_, Malfoy," he said with a laugh. He raised his hands. "Fine, be my guest. There's the door. If you don't even know what you want, then–"

"I know exactly what I want," snapped Draco, "and I know exactly what submission _is_." He dropped his voice to a mocking tone. "Every good Dominant trains as a submissive as well, Potter, which you would know if _you_ were at all well trained. I, moreover, am _good_." He drew the word out, watching Potter's face flush.

"You– _God_," breathed Potter, slumping back against his desk. "You did, really?"

"Yes, really." He rolled his eyes. "I know exactly what your role is, and I know exactly what my role is. The question is, do _you_ have any fucking clue about either? I think not."

"Oh, you are such an arse," snapped Potter, glaring. "I know what–"

"You're either too proud or too easy," said Draco, pointing his index finger at Potter. "I've seen you twice now, and you either gave me attitude or went as limp as a rag doll as soon as I came near."

"Well, I don't usually agree to a fucking blindfold for my first time with someone," hissed Potter, "so yeah, I probably got a bit tetchy. And as for the second, you–" he swallowed down his next words but then took a breath and reconsidered. "You aroused me," he said quietly, mashing his lips together. "Just, you come to my fucking office like this, make me even _have_ this conversation with fifty of my bloody employees out there, and then you push every single button I fucking have, combined with this being, just, it's where I _work_, Malfoy! Jesus fucking Christ. And then you complain that _I'm_ the one who's doing it wrong? Fuck you."

Draco was silent, watching Potter work himself up. He ran his eyes down Potter's body, taking in the commanding figure he cut in his elite Ministry robes, and couldn't help but wonder if Draco might not be able to work with something here after all, to bottle that energy and authority and put it to use for his own pleasure.

"What are you fucking staring at?" Potter threw his hands up. "Just get out of here before I call the–"

"Tomorrow night," said Draco softly. "Be at the club at ten p.m. Let's see how you do."

He opened the door and left before Potter could respond.

***

Harry stood staring at the slammed door for a long moment. When he finally fell into his desk chair, he tried to bring his body back under control and come up with a good reason not to go anywhere near that club again tomorrow night.

It was more difficult than he ever would have thought.

***

Draco arrived at the club later than usual the following evening. He generally preferred to go in around six, meet with each of his regular Dominants about their clients for the evening, troubleshoot where necessary, and consult with Phoebe about the schedule. On Tuesdays he prepared the paycheques, on Wednesdays he arranged to pay some bills, on Fridays he inspected the equipment to make sure it was in perfect order – since that was the day it was bound to get the most use. After a hard workweek, most of his elite clientele wanted appointments on Fridays. They paid handsomely for them, too.

Tonight he arrived just before ten, though, unsettled and not entirely convinced that Phoebe hadn't slipped him some sort of potion the day before, just to get him to invite Potter back again for her own voyeuristic amusement. This was a terrible idea. He hadn't trained a new client in far too long, and he preferred it that way. Not to mention that the very thought of _Potter_ made his blood seethe in ways he couldn't even explain. They had hardly spoken in years. The war was long since over. Draco had moved on from petty school-age rivalries.

Or so he'd thought.

In his office, he removed his cloak and glanced up at the wall chart. The light for the Ebony room glowed blue, signalling that Potter had already arrived and the staff had prepared him. He could already picture exactly what he wanted to do to Potter, exactly the way his palm would flatten against Potter's flushed skin and his fingers would tighten in dark hair. He could picture Potter's averted eyes, no longer boring a hole through Draco in accusation or judgement, the way they used to. He could picture the way he would prise Potter's body open and sink inside of it, gagging him and shoving him down and instructing him to shut his bloody mouth for one fucking second, and –

No. Fuck. This was too dangerous.

Approaching a submissive client from a position of _anger_ rather than a shared understanding of pleasure... no. It would never work. He risked going too far, crossing the line into unwanted pain. He'd never crossed that line before, not even when he was young and still training, but he had no doubt that Potter could bring it out in him. The very worst of the arrogant teenager he'd been when he'd last encountered Potter, the boy who'd lacked all self-control when faced with the roiling envy and fury that Potter evoked in him... he couldn't let himself go back to that place.

Reaching down, he fingered the thread of silver he wore around his left wrist, repeating to himself the lines imprinted on it. It wasn't enough. He should call this whole thing off, send Potter home.

But as he entered the room and found Potter half-clothed and bent over the desk, as Draco had instructed, leaving ceased to be an option.

His robes and dark trousers were thrown haphazard over the back of the nearby sofa as if he'd been frantic to be rid of them. He wore only tight, dark pants and a white button-down shirt that hung open, the sleeves rolled up and the loose collar almost hanging off one shoulder. His hair was tousled and his face flushed, and as he propped himself up on his elbows over the Ebony room's broad mahogany desk, he looked as though he'd already been fucked senseless and was simply waiting for more.

Draco closed his eyes to compose himself.

"_Slut_," he began before he could stop himself, striding forward with one hand already tearing at the buttons of his own shirt.

He normally started slowly, testing the strength of his commands and the responses they elicited, getting to know his partner's boundaries. Potter's general requests and safeword had been detailed in the letter, but even so, nothing quite replaced a personal encounter in terms of learning just what a submissive could take. But something about the sight of Potter draped across the desk with his thighs tensed and his arse out was making Draco's blood heat more quickly than he wanted.

"Did I tell you to undress and behave like a filthy whore while I was gone?" He approached Potter from behind, hovering but not touching. "Answer me."

"No, sir," breathed Potter.

"Have you already been taken tonight?" continued Draco, dropping his voice to a menacing tone and sliding one finger over the curve of Potter's arse. "Have my associates already been here and used you up?"

Potter let out a shaky breath.

"Or is this all for me?" Draco's finger slid down, tracing the heaviness of Potter's balls under his pants. He paused, then brought his hand back up. "Answer," he snapped.

"All for you, sir. You wanted me clean and unused."

"And why should I trust that you listened?" Draco leaned over Potter's back, his chest weighing lightly across Potter's shoulder blades as his hips pressed forward through his trousers. "Why should I trust that Harry fucking Potter would tell me the truth about anything at all?"

Underneath him, Potter's back tensed and his head whipped around to glare over his shoulder.

Undeterred, Draco planted his palm between Potter's shoulder blades and pressed down. "Oh, my mistake," he bit out. "You're nameless here, are you? Of course you are." His dick was hardening, _God_, and it wasn't just from general dominance. It was from this, from Potter, from holding him down and saying anything he wanted. "Are you tired of playing the hero, then?"

"Oh, fuck you."

Delight surged through Draco's body, and he pressed Potter down even harder onto the desk. His fingers curled around the polished edges, and Draco could feel Potter's heart racing. His other hand shot up and threaded through Potter's hair, yanking his head around to look him in the eye. "I asked you," said Draco quietly, enunciating each word, "if you were tired of playing the hero." He held Potter's gaze until it grew uncomfortable, waiting for Potter to jerk away or tell him off again. Neither happened. Potter's face shifted, his jaw relaxing a fraction and his eyes softening at the corners. He exhaled deeply before answering.

"Yes," he murmured.

It was the answer he wanted, but nonetheless, Draco's flare of triumph was overshadowed by one of unexplained anger. "Anything you want, you get – is that it? Why am I even surprised. Filthy fucking cockslut." He released his hold on Potter long enough to stand up and tear his trousers open. His dick was hot in his hand and painfully eager. He risked losing complete control, but he still couldn't stop. "Did you prepare yourself like I asked?"

Potter nodded before dropping his forehead down to the desk, his face turned slightly to the side.

Draco didn't wait to check. He yanked Potter's pants down around his thighs and pushed himself into Potter's cleft. Merlin, but he was already warm and slick and open. Draco bit down on his lip so hard he feared drawing blood as he sank into Potter's body, clawing at his hips.

Potter slammed forward into the desk at the first thrust, catching his breath and swallowing down a shout.

"You thought I was so weak," panted Draco, the words tumbling through clenched teeth. He gripped Potter's hips hard enough to see the skin whiten around his fingers. He thrust in deep, spurred on by the sound of the desk thumping against the wall with each movement. "Thought I was just a pawn, my father's lackey."

"What? God. No, sir," Potter gasped, his fingers scrabbling against the desk. "Never thought that."

"Don't call me that," shouted Draco, flattening his palm over Potter's back to keep him down. An inexplicable fury welled up inside him and he could feel his control slipping further and further away. "Don't you _dare_ come in here and pretend you want it like this. Fight me, you bastard," he added, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. He tried to ignore the way Potter's arse clenched around him every time Draco raised his voice.

"Fuck," moaned Potter, his face flushed and his fist slamming down against the desk. "God, yes."

Horrified at the ease with which Potter was accepting Draco's fury, he slowed his pace. "Fight me," he whispered again, leaning over Potter's back to ghost the word up the back of his neck. "Don't tell me you can't." He slid out, standing up straighter to watch his oiled cock pull back from Potter's body, then push back in to a low groan. "Don't tell me you want it like this, you fucking ponce."

Potter was silent, trembling beneath him. Draco stopped thrusting altogether, his cock buried deep.

"Speak, dammit!"

It was the only order Potter needed. A litany of moans spilled from his lips at that, each one seeping over the rough wood of the desk and falling to the floor in musical droplets. "Harder," he gasped. "God. _Fuck_."

Draco stared down at his back.

"Jesus, Malfoy." He sounded increasingly desperate. "_Please_, sir. Fuck me."

No. _Hell_ no. Whatever Potter was playing at, he wasn't going to get away with it. Draco withdrew and shoved back in hard, trapping Potter's hips against the desk. His orgasm tore through him and he felt himself tumble over the edge, coming hard and deep inside Potter's body. He shoved forward as much as he could, drowning in the searing release and incomprehensible pleasure of feeling Potter clench around him and Potter's limp body convulse underneath him.

Furious with himself, perhaps even more than he was with Potter, Draco pulled out too quickly, standing and shoving his dick back in his trousers. He fastened them and took a step backward on quivering legs, pushing his hair out of his eyes. _Focus, Goddammit_. What would he do if this were a normal fuck with a normal bloody sub?

He'd have already dismissed him and turned back to his work, that's what.

Potter still lay slumped against the desk, flushed and panting and covered in Draco's come and likely his own, and Draco couldn't even put his rage into words, couldn't even figure out what had just fucking _happened_, never mind how to make sure it never happened again.

"Get the fuck out," he managed, wiping the sweat from his face.

Potter raised his head at that, looking Draco square in the eye. It was a hard look, a knowing look, and for a moment Draco couldn't believe his eyes.

That's what Potter had _wanted_?

"Yes, sir," murmured Potter, struggling to his feet and giving Draco a shallow bow. Without even bothering to collect the remainder of his clothes, he moved quietly across the room in only his hastily tugged-up pants and open shirt. In another second, he'd quietly let himself out.

His mouth falling open, Draco lifted his trembling palm to his face. He slid down the wall to the floor, pressing his thumb and forefinger to each temple.

***

Harry Apparated half-dressed, his mind still fogged. When he arrived home, he stood under the steaming hot spray of the shower for a long time, running the evening over and over again in his mind.

_Fight me_.

The words had slid down his spine and made him groan in thick bursts against the wood of the desk, but only now, after seeing Malfoy's reaction, did Harry entertain the notion that Malfoy had been _serious_. Harry was quite accustomed to fighting, oh yes, but only between the hours of nine and five. He'd fought for education for sentient creatures; he'd fought for house-elf freedom; he'd fought for concrete steps towards House unity at Hogwarts rather than only paying homage to the usual Dumbledorean platitudes.

But to be a submissive who fought?

It was what he'd always wanted, but also what he'd never quite been able to ask for.

***

Draco sighed as the letter landed on the desk in front of him. He glanced up to find Phoebe giving him a knowing smile from the door.

"I do believe that's the Commissioner's seal, sir," she chirped, nodding at it.

"I do believe I instructed you to send him a rejection letter," grumbled Draco, picking the thing up and pitching it at her.

She ducked, still managing to catch it, then sent it sailing back. "I did," she said triumphantly. "He must not be the sort to take no for an answer." She turned back down the hall. "Told you he's not a real sub," he heard her mutter as she drifted away.

Scowling at her back, he picked the letter up and waved his wand over it to release the seal and unfold the parchment. He blinked at the black scrawl, pressing his lips together.

_I have no idea why, but I trust you when you're with me. What will it take for you to trust yourself?_

Draco balled it up and flung it in the bin. He could _not_ get involved in a Dominant relationship with Harry Potter. There was no trust there, no respect, and as pleasurable as an anger-fuelled orgasm might be at the moment of passion, it went against every rule in the book.

If Potter was going to let Draco say the things he'd said to him that night and just lay down like a rag doll and take it, then they had no future.

***

A week later, Harry sat down to his breakfast and Summoned the morning _Prophet_, taking a sip of coffee as he unrolled it. He nearly scalded his throat on a steaming mouthful when he saw the cover story.

He gaped at the photograph while the words swam in front of his eyes. God and fuck. He'd grown to expect the very worst, and still, he never expected _this_.

***

"Sir?"

It wasn't like Phoebe's voice to waver like that. Draco looked up from his desk. She held a newspaper in her trembling hands. Slowly, she crossed the office and offered it to him, her face white.

"Who would do this?" she whispered. As quick as that, though, her mind clicked back into its usual place. "I've an aunt in France," she said in conspiratorial voice, glancing back over her shoulder. "I can get you that far if you want."

Draco was staring at the front page, incredulous. Nearly ten years in the business, and this was the first time this had ever happened. Fuck. "No," he said, waving her off. "Not yet."

"The Ministry'll throw us to the fucking wolves, sir!" she exclaimed. "If I may say," she added, breathing hard.

If it looked like the famous Reconciliation and Reconstruction Commission was condoning what they would see as prostitution right in their backyard? Yes, Draco knew, they likely would. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Who else do we know?"

"Lewis at Magical Cooperation," she recited, her eyes raised to the ceiling, "um, Magnusson at the Chamber of Commerce..."

"Fools, all of them. They'll throw us to the wolves even quicker."

"The Commissioner has called a press conference at noon," she added, scanning the article again over Draco's shoulder. "Should we go?"

"You? No," grumbled Draco, eyeing her outfit. "Me? Likely a bad idea." He sighed. "Get it on the wireless," he told her. "If we know what they're after, we can better figure out how to hide it. In the meantime, make sure the locks are in place. No one enters or leaves, understood?"

She nodded, hurrying from the office.

_Fuck_.

***

Harry stood in front of the mirror in the loo off his office, smoothing the front of his robes and reviewing the situation in his head. He had two options: make an example of Malfoy... or save him.

It was disturbing how bloody easy the decision was.

***

Draco, Phoebe and Colette were the only staff in the offices that morning. They gathered around the wireless in Draco's office at noon as the Commissioner began his prepared speech. Draco pushed down a shiver at the sound of his voice, especially sounding so authoritative.

"Early this morning, the Ministry and the _Daily Prophet_ received a letter detailing the allegedly scandalous activities of a wizarding business establishment in central London."

Phoebe rolled her eyes, tugging on an imaginary cock in front of her.

"As the _Prophet_ reported, Draco Malfoy is the alleged proprietor of this establishment, which the _Prophet _insists provides professional sex workers to debauch hardworking witches and wizards."

Phoebe and Colette both gave Draco sympathetic looks. He glanced away.

"I am here today to–"

Draco held his breath. Oh, the arrogant bloody _bastard_, drawing this out.

"–announce that the _Prophet_ is, as of this afternoon, under investigation for corruption. I would like to express my personal disappointment with this newspaper, which has apparently seen fit to regress back to the lies it once sold as fact during the war. It has been the work of the Reconciliation and Reconstruction Commission to combat precisely this sort of residual prejudice and persecution of reformed Death Eaters in wizarding society. Mr Malfoy runs a private printing firm. The Commission has conducted an investigation and determined that unless parchment and ink is some new manner of sexual combination–"

The gathered reporters tittered.

"–then Mr Malfoy's company has suffered libel at the hands of the _Prophet_ and will be compensated accordingly."

Draco blinked at the machine. Harry Potter, defending _Draco's_ honour? Merlin's balls.

"Who wrote the letter?" a reporter called out.

"Yeah!" cried Colette. "Hand him over to me; I've got a few ideas for how to punish him."

"We've traced it back to a disgruntled former employee of Mr Malfoy's," said Potter. The three people around the wireless stared at each other.

"_Carlos_," breathed Phoebe, her hands in fists in her lap. "That monkey fucker. I'll rip his balls off."

"Not if I do first," grumbled Draco. Colette's face lit up, and she placed a hand on Draco's knee.

"They're as good as useless now, though, remember?" she said, cackling. "That stupid arse. Bet he thought the secrecy charm didn't apply after employment was terminated."

Ah. Draco smiled. "Excellent point, my dear," he said, squeezing her hand. "I hope he's poised over some sweet young thing right this second, wondering why he can't get it up."

***

Draco rolled up his shirtsleeves and stood at the window, nursing a glass of wine. Maybe this whole debacle had been a blessing in disguise, a sign that he should go do something else with his life. He'd spent so long mixing business and pleasure that he hardly knew how to separate them anymore, besides being able to identify the fact that his personal pleasure had not been met by _M_. clients for quite some time.

It had only been met by one person in years, in fact, and then only sporadically. That person was not a good match. Simple as that.

"Sir?"

He sighed, not turning around. "I'm busy, Phoebe."

"I can see that, sir," she said with no hint of irony, damn her, "but I think you'll want to come with me."

"If the club is on fire, then that's it." He lifted a shoulder. "Nothing can be done. I've significant insurance, though, so don't worry yourself."

"Come _here_, sir," she tutted, her voice taking on the dangerous edge she must use with her own partners. "I won't ask you again, because you know I wouldn't insist if it weren't important."

He turned at that, appraising her. "All right," he said softly, setting his glass down on a table. "I do know that. What is it?"

She gave him a relieved smile. "I believe you'll want to get to the Ebony room straightaway," she said with a nod. "There's a favour for you to repay."

He groaned, dropping his head. "God, no. What is he doing here?"

"Not taking no for an answer, I'd say, sir. Again." She gave him a significant look before bowing and leaving the room. "If I don't see that light on in thirty seconds," she called back, "I'll–"

"All right, all right," he muttered, following her out the door. "I'm going."

He made his way to the Ebony room, pushing down memories of the last time he was there, and opened the door. Potter stood inside, fully dressed and leaning casually against the very desk over which Draco had fucked him to pieces the last time. Draco took a deep breath.

"_Sir_," said Potter, greeting him with an amused drawl. He stood up straight and met Draco's gaze. What, was he taking insolence lessons from Phoebe now?

"Commissioner."

Draco enjoyed the glare Potter levelled at him for that. "Please, don't thank me all at once," said Potter, rolling his eyes. "Your gratitude is overwhelming."

"I never needed your help."

"Yes, you did, so this is how it goes." He counted off on his fingers. "You need help. I help you. You say thank you. See? Not so hard."

Draco folded his arms over his chest. "You're wasting my time. What do you want?"

Potter pushed himself off the desk and strode towards him, stopping inches away. He held Draco's gaze for a long moment. "You know what I want."

"Your application was rejected," said Draco, narrowing his eyes. "Several times."

"Then I'm filing an appeal." He tilted his head to the side, searching Draco's face. "Don't tell me," he added quietly, "that you don't enjoy what we do."

Draco's lips parted, and he had to fight back the urge to curl his hand around the back of Potter's neck and haul him in for a crushing kiss. His gaze roved over Potter's immaculate robes, his shaven face, his commanding eyes, and the thought of being the one who got to destroy all that authority and perfection – the _only_ one who ever got to do so – momentarily electrified him. "You bring out the worst in me," he said evenly.

Potter tried to push down a grin. "I like that," he said after a moment, running one hand through his hair. "All right? I don't know why, but I do. So stop worrying so much." He paused, wetting his lips. "You won't hurt me."

"I very nearly did, last time." The words were out before Draco could stop them. Fuck. He absently fingered the chain around his wrist, searching in vain for the strength he was supposed to have in reserve, just for situations in which he was tested like this.

Potter's face shifted, as if he finally understood. "No, you didn't," he murmured. His eyes followed Draco's movements down to his wrist, and he blinked. "You're always touching that," he said, glancing back up. "May I?"

The refusal died on his tongue. Wordlessly, Draco held his arm out.

Potter lifted Draco's arm, both hands sliding around his wrist as he leaned closer.

Draco remained silent, watching him.

The thin chain seemed unbearably light in Potter's fingers. He lifted it away from Draco's skin, letting it fall over the pad of his thumb as he turned it over. "Light as iron," he read in a low voice, skimming the chain around Draco's wrist. He tilted his head to read the other side. "Singed as pearl."

Draco held back his habitual sneering comment as he watched the wheels turn in Potter's head – wondering if the idiot would finally _see_, or if he'd keep –

Potter raised his head, seeking out Draco's eyes. "It's beautiful," he murmured. "An old Malfoy family poem?" He smiled, and Draco snatched his hand back.

"Hardly. And if you can't figure it out, then I've even less use for you now than I did bef–"

"I can figure it out."

Draco stopped mid-sentence, his tongue halfway to the next word. He let it linger on the edges of his lips as he regarded Potter, before closing his mouth. Silence enveloped them, and Draco knew he had to stop staring, stop looking at Potter with such high expectations, but he couldn't help it. _You'll never get it_, he thought angrily. _You'll never understand how to do this_.

But he'd hardly completed the thought before Potter did something impossible. In one smooth movement, his eyes hardly leaving Draco's, he took a step back and dropped to his knees. He clasped his hands behind his back and lowered his head, breaking eye contact at last. Draco could see Potter's chest rising and falling quickly; he'd done this on impulse, the idiot. Still not thinking it through.

"Get up, you fool," growled Draco, making to grab Potter's arm.

Potter shook him off. "No," he said quietly.

Draco froze. Potter's breathing evened out, and he sank further into the pose. Still fully robed, the bastard was managing to look both authoritative and bared. The back of Potter's neck stretched out before Draco, whispers of dark hair curling over it, but still, in between those wisps and the collar of the robes sat perfect, unmarked skin, ripe for the taking.

Draco's breath caught. "What did you say to me?"

Potter didn't miss a beat. "I said _no_, sir," he repeated, his voice level and his head still bowed. "It pleases me to be here. To–" he stumbled only briefly – "serve you."

Draco stared at him, at a loss. "It can't possibly," he murmured at last, pushing down the excitement rising at the sight before him. Without thinking, he let his fingers wander, grazing over Potter's hair and down the back of his neck. Potter's flesh prickled underneath his touch, and Draco sucked in a sharp breath.

"Yes, it can."

Draco's fingers followed the line of Potter's jaw from the back of his neck around to his face. He swept his thumb over Potter's cheek, closing his eyes when Potter leaned forward and brushed his lips over Draco's fingers, biting lightly.

"Tell me what you want, sir," he breathed, "and I'll tell you if I can provide it."

A hundred possibilities flashed through Draco's mind all at once.

"Or," added Potter after another moment of silence, "I can give you a couple of options."

"I hardly need you to make my decisions for me," snapped Draco, snatching his hand back. "If you stay, you'll do as I say and not–"

"Yes, I will," interrupted Potter, "right after I show you what I want."

Draco's body lit up all at once at that, arousal flaring through him. This couldn't be happening. There was no chance Potter _actually_ understood what he was talking about, how he was behaving exactly the way Draco wished his partners would behave at the height of the game. He grasped Potter's chin and tilted his head up to look at him. He gave him one firm nod, then stepped back, waiting to see what he would do.

Rising as fluidly as he'd fallen, Potter got to his feet and began to undress. With a methodical grace, he removed each item of clothing and folded them over the armchair, slowing only when he reached his pants. Meeting Draco's gaze, he pushed them down at last and stepped out of them, managing to look both assertive and shy as he did so. Draco's lips parted at his first sight of Potter's cock, already full and thick between his legs. "If it pleases you, sir," he said evenly, squaring his shoulders.

Draco nodded, his mouth dry. "Continue."

Turning, Potter walked over to the large bed in the centre of the room. In their encounters so far, they'd not had occasion to use it; truth be told, Draco preferred to engage in dominance games away from beds. It was easier to feel commanding while standing or ordering a submissive to take up poses over various pieces of furniture than it was while lying down. But he didn't stop Potter. At this point, he needed to know what his plan was.

Potter climbed onto the bed and spread himself out. Settling comfortably on his back, he stretched his arms up over his head and planted his feet on the duvet, his knees bent. "If it pleases you, sir," he repeated.

Draco stared, his hand already moving almost of its own accord to begin unfastening the buttons of his shirt. Potter's body was tight and perfect, all lean muscle dusted with dark hair. Draco had to deny the urge to reach down and touch himself as he watched. Bloody hell. "Continue," he whispered.

Potter glanced up at his hands, his face schooled in concentration. With a single whispered word, a length of black silk shot out of the bedposts and wrapped themselves around his wrists. He looked down at his feet, focusing once more, and repeated the incantation. The bonds stood out beautifully against his skin, and he gave them an experimental tug. Satisfied, he looked over at Draco once more. His lips were parted and his face flushed.

Draco's eyes swept up Potter's body, tied down and displayed just for him, his stomach muscles clenched and his cock jutting out from the dark hair between his legs. Draco's blood pounded.

"I'm ready, sir," said Potter, his eyes locked on Draco. "You may use me."

Draco swallowed down a low gasp at the words as they shot straight down his spine. He tore his shirt open and discarded his trousers, stepping out of them and kicking his shoes aside. The shirt stayed on as he approached the bed; he preferred not to be completely naked when taking charge of a situation. The sleeves were rolled up and it hung loosely from his shoulders, framing his chest. When he reached the side of the bed, he let his hand drift down to palm the bulge in his pants. "For me?" he murmured.

Potter nodded.

"And what precisely shall I do with you, now that you've done all the most enjoyable work for me?"

Potter had the good sense to flush, but his jaw remained set. "I thought you'd like your gift, sir."

Draco leaned over and ran his fingers along the length of silk binding Potter's wrists. "All wrapped up for me?" he murmured. Potter lowered his eyes.

"Yes, sir."

"Then don't you fucking move." He hardened his tone. Potter had shown he had spine, but there could still only be one Dominant in the room, or this wouldn't work.

Potter's eyes fluttered closed at Draco's tone.

"Open your eyes," added Draco when he noticed. "Watch me." With Potter's intense gaze focused on him, Draco slipped his pants down and stepped out of them, letting his open shirt frame his body. One hand drifted to his cock and he began to stroke it, gliding his fingers over it with slow, practiced movements, making sure Potter was watching. "Do you know what I'm going to do now?"

Potter's gaze shifted up to Draco's face. "I sure hope you're going to fuck me with that thing," he breathed. "Sir."

"Would you enjoy that?" Draco's hand stilled.

"God, yes. Sir." Potter's stomach was clenched and his hips were trying to lift off the bed, but he struggled to keep his body still. "Please. Use me however you like."

Oh, but this would be beautifully satisfying, to climb on top of Potter, part his thighs and sink in between them. The memory of being inside him the last time flashed through Draco, the feeling of pushing inside his body and holding him down for thrusts as powerful as Draco could give. That's what Potter wanted; he'd made that plain. It was what Draco wanted, too. But there was something else he wanted, something else Potter _made_ him want.

_Use me_.

Without giving it another thought, Draco climbed on the bed and knelt between Potter's bound legs. He spread his hands and slid them up the insides of Potter's thighs, watching Potter's cock thicken even more. He leaned down before Potter could protest. Flattening his tongue, Draco licked a long, slow strip up Potter's cock, pausing at the tip to swirl his tongue over it. Potter tried to arch into his mouth, but Draco's hands moved quickly to pin his hips down.

"Ah-ah." He sat up again. "I've no interest in sucking your filthy cock. I should think I've better things to do with my mouth."

Potter mashed his lips together, and Draco had to swallow down a grin at how well he was behaving, not resorting to begging like he surely wanted to.

"Close your eyes. Just for a moment."

When Potter complied, Draco whispered the spell to lubricate his fingers. Potter heard him do it and must have expected to be touched. His body tensed. Draco, however, had other plans. He quietly reached down and began to touch himself instead, his fingers pushing gently inside and working himself open. He nearly gasped at the pleasure of it; it had been so long since he'd done this that he'd nearly forgotten. Not many submissives understood how something like this could still fit perfectly into their roles, so he generally didn't even try.

When he felt ready, he repeated the spell and reached out to spread the oil over Potter's cock.

"Sir?" Potter gasped, writhing under Draco's hands. Draco pressed his thighs apart and climbed up to straddle him, his knees tight around Potter's hips.

"I don't want to hear your voice," he snapped. He hovered over Potter's cock. "I am going to perform an act upon you now," he added, "and you must maintain control of yourself. If you come before I tell you to, you will never be permitted in my bed again. Is that clear? You may nod if you understand."

His lips parted and his chest heaving, Potter nodded.

Draco leaned down, his lips close to Potter's jaw. "You may _not_ come," he repeated, his voice low.

Potter's closed lids crinkled at the corners as he squeezed them shut even further. He nodded again.

Draco finally lowered himself enough so that Potter could feel him, nestling Potter's cock into Draco's cleft. He let the head begin to push inside before he paused.

"Oh God," gasped Potter, arching up. "What are you–"

"Silence!"

Potter whimpered, his hands balled into fists beyond the bonds over his head.

Inch by inch, Draco sank down on Potter's cock, shuddering at the stretch and concentrating on the steady downward slide. Fuck, Potter was big. The oil was a godsend, easing the way without obscuring the raw sensation of deep penetration, and Draco soon found his thighs trembling as he took Potter in completely. Potter was quaking as well, his breath coming in deep gulps and his stomach tight with the effort of holding himself back.

"Open your eyes."

Suppressing a moan, Potter opened his eyes and stared up at Draco with an expression of pure, tortured bliss.

"You're going to watch me use you for my own pleasure," said Draco, lifting himself up again. Potter's gaze immediately dropped to take in the sight of his slick cock sliding free of Draco's body before Draco sank down once more, letting it disappear inside again. Draco's shirt fell off one shoulder as he moved, the edges still fluttering around his hips. "You are not going to moan," continued Draco, "you are not going to thrust, and you are not going to come inside me."

Potter's eyes widened at that.

Draco leaned down. "I don't get dirty," he clarified, his lips inches from Potter's. "I am not a filthy cockslut like you; I only wish to take what's already mine and use it as I please."

Potter's neck arched back as he broke eye contact, focusing his anguished gaze on the ceiling.

God. This wasn't going to take nearly as long as Draco had hoped. Potter felt incredible inside him, the raw stretch having eased into a steady thrum. Draco began to ride Potter's cock in earnest, rising and falling and clenching in ways that gave him surges of pleasure at each push inside. He gazed down at Potter and bit his lip at the expression of pure agony on his face, the way he was likely counting the dots on the ceiling to keep from grasping Draco's hips and pouring out his orgasm inside Draco's body.

Maybe another time. He couldn't deny that the thought of it was arousing, even if it would never work in practice, not if Draco wished to maintain his role. He ground down and took in as much of Potter as he could, his fist dropping to his own cock and wrapping around it. He tried to maintain his control, but one look down at Potter's cock emerging from his body and Draco was done for.

"Look at me," he breathed one more time, directing Potter's gaze from the ceiling back to the bed. Reluctantly, Potter met his eyes, his face flushed. The sight of that trembling arousal sent Draco over. He fisted his cock and ceased his movements over Potter's body as his orgasm seized him. Clenching hard around Potter, Draco pulsed in great waves, splashing come over Potter's chest and stomach. "Taste," he barked, nearly breathless.

Potter instantly struggled to sit up as much as he could, his arms stretched tight over his head as his lips parted and his tongue slipped out. One last spurt of come landed over Potter's mouth, and he licked it down, still holding back a groan.

Spent and shuddering, Draco sat back for a moment before collecting himself enough to climb off Potter, the last, exquisite slide of his cock tugging at every nerve ending Draco had left. He shifted to the foot of the bed and knelt, watching. "Very good," he murmured. His gaze drifted from Potter's strained cock to his face. "Is there something you would like to say?"

"Please," gasped Potter.

"What, me?" Draco gave him a look of practiced disgust. "I believe I already told you: I don't get dirty." He paused. "What shall we do with you, then? Do you deserve a reward?"

"If it pleases you, sir," Potter managed.

"Tell me what you'll do if I free you."

"Oh, God. I'll touch myself. You can watch, sir, but I won't get you dirty. I promise."

"Do you, now." Draco rose from the bed and walked across the room to the wardrobe. There, he pushed the shirt the rest of the way off his shoulders and selected a dressing gown. He tied it loosely around his waist, stopped at the bar to pour himself a glass of wine and returned to sit in the armchair across from the bed. He took a sip. "You put yourself in that situation," he continued. "I couldn't possibly know the spells to untie you."

Potter took in a series of deep breaths, his nostrils flaring with each one.

"If you wish to come," said Draco quietly, "then you'd better get on with it. I haven't got all evening."

Potter stared at him, comprehension dawning on his face. He moaned, lifting his hips.

"No? Very well. I'd better talk you through it, or we'll be here forever." He took another sip of wine, his imagination conjuring the right scenarios. "Did you enjoy being inside me?" he began, sitting back in the chair. "You did very well, you know: impressive control, even as I took you in over and over again."

Potter writhed on the bed, his fists clenched beyond the bonds.

"Look at you now, you filthy slut – covered in come and begging for more. I should go back over there and fuck you blind." He raised his voice, colouring it with a touch of the menace to which he now knew Potter responded best. "One thing I've learned about you, Potter: you love a cock in your mouth and in your arse, don't you? I could bend you over any surface in this room, tie you down and shove myself inside of you, and all you'd do would be to beg for more. All you need is a Dominant man who knows how to handle you, hm? I _know you_, Potter. I know you better than anyone, don't I? And now I know exactly what gets you off, too, exactly how the very sound of my voice telling you how I'm going to fuck you raw as soon as I finish my wine can make you–"

Bending forward as much as he could, Potter let out a strangled shout. Draco watched in fascination as Potter's cock pulsed over his stomach, his come mingling with Draco's and running down his hip. His entire body tensed, his thighs and biceps alike clenched with the strain of holding back and then pouring his release forth. Panting, he fell back against the bed as the bonds vanished from his wrists and ankles. When he'd caught his breath, he grinned at Draco's raised eyebrow.

"Fancy bit of charm work," he said. "They release when I do."

"How terribly brilliant," said Draco in a bored voice, but his own breath was strained after witnessing such a gorgeous spectacle as Harry Potter having a blinding orgasm from Draco's voice alone. They were both silent for a long moment before Potter finally spoke.

"You're going to tell me to leave now, aren't you?" he said, resigned.

"Probably."

Potter propped himself up on one elbow, peering over at him. "But not yet?"

"Quit chattering at me. I'm trying to enjoy my wine."

Potter flopped back down to the bed with a grin, throwing one arm over his face.

Draco continued to sip his wine in silence. After another moment, Potter pushed himself up and swung his legs around, climbing off the bed. He moved quietly to collect his clothes and get dressed. When he was done, he stood by the door, his head bowed. Draco watched him. "You may go," he said at last.

When Potter didn't move, Draco sighed.

"Is there something else? You may speak."

"I'd like to see you again, sir," said Potter, his voice firm.

Draco's body gave an involuntary shiver. Merlin, but he'd like nothing better. He cleared his throat. "I don't take on regular clients."

"You– really?" A note of hope coloured the word. "So there's... no one else?"

Draco regarded him, swirling his wineglass. "Mind your place," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry, sir," said Potter, raising his head again, "but it pleases me to know that. I fear I could get rather possessive of you."

"That would be unwise." Draco held his gaze from across the room, his body already sparking with arousal once more. He knew he would be more than capable of becoming possessive of Potter as well. Dammit.

"I– yes, sir." Exhaling and lowering his head again, Potter turned to the door. "I understand."

He was just about out the door when Draco called after him. "If I don't take on regular _clients_, then you'd better tell Phoebe you'll be needing your fee returned."

Potter froze.

"And you'd better be at my flat at noon tomorrow. I don't ever want to see you here again."

Potter turned, his mouth open. "Oh God. Yes, sir," he breathed.

"Leave," Draco ordered, even as Potter let out a relieved laugh. "And Commissioner?" he added, and Potter stilled again, his back tensing. "Go clean yourself up. You're filthy."

Potter threw a grin over his shoulder as he sauntered down the hall.

 

-fin-


End file.
